


The Taste of Your Lips (I'm on a Ride)

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Denial of Feelings, Developing Relationship, Feelings, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, M/M, Pining, Repression, Slow Burn, Smudged Lipstick, Spy Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:28:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23044792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: Jaskier wears lipstick. Geralt pines.(That's it, that's the fic.)(OK, there's more to it, but the lipstick/pining is real.)For an instant his upper lip dips strangely in the middle, sharp little crests like crimson mountaintops, before the brush fans out the colour more evenly. Reflected in the mirror positioned in a darkened part of their room, Jaskier reminds him of a lady at her boudoir, movements precise, candlelight highlighting the delicate parts of him while shadows show his depths.As a guest, he requires the right garb. An adequate face to circulate. The accoutrements of the opulent.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 178





	1. 01.

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to post the sequel to [That One Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22962958) tonight. But then... Jaskier in lipstick happened... all over my brain... *grin*
> 
> Obviously, Joey Batey is to blame. It's furthermore been a shit week, and my brain was trying to console me by chanting, "Jaskier in lipstick, Jaskier in lipstick, Jaskier in lipstick," and then this happened.
> 
> When you're writing lipstick fic, your options are either Britney or that one Garbage song where titles are concerned, so I went with the Queen and "Toxic".
> 
> Also, as context, because this Author's Note is not long enough, these are the steps my brain went through from initial inspiration to actually sitting down to write/revise it:
> 
> 1\. "I love playing with gender."  
> 2\. "I've always had this kink, so let's go."  
> 3\. "At the end of the day, what matters to me will always be emotional resonance. And crossbows."
> 
> I hope someone other than me is all in on this. Kudos and comments will be greatly appreciated.

There's an event, of sorts, an earl's son and his new bride celebrating something of import two towns over. A party Jaskier can attend as a guest, claiming an old schoolyard friendship with the earl's son in order to drink their wine and eat their food and mingle amongst their guests. For once, he's not going as just another bard, mere entertainment, but has been invited in his own right.

Sincerely doubting Jaskier has learnt to keep his prick out of other people's pantries, Geralt reckons with a sigh that this time he's on his own where potential angry husbands and fathers and the like are concerned. Although this might be the banquet where that's the least of his worries.

Geralt watches him, and wonders.

For an instant his upper lip dips strangely in the middle, sharp little crests like crimson mountaintops, before the brush fans out the colour more evenly. Reflected in the mirror positioned in a darkened part of their room, Jaskier reminds him of a lady at her boudoir, movements precise, candlelight highlighting the delicate parts of him while shadows show his depths.

As a guest, he requires the right garb. An adequate face to circulate. The accoutrements of the opulent.

Geralt draws his eyes away, focuses his stare on the mulled wine the chambermaid brought them earlier, silently marvelling that they indeed are staying the night at an inn which employs a chambermaid, in and of itself a rarity in their lives.

Straightening the lapel of what passes for courtly attire where Jaskier is concerned, he turns from the mirror, and Geralt's everything sort of... stops.

There's magic in it, surely. Must be. Eyes tracking every shift of skin and play of light across the red sheen, Geralt flexes his jaw and clenches his fingers into fists by his sides. Releases. Picks up his ale and downs it.

And Jaskier merely smiles charmingly before tipping his head forward, acknowledgement and goodbye both.

By dawn he has returned, sneaking into their room to Geralt sitting awake by the window, sleep having left him hours beforehand. Autumn rain beats at the glass, the sky overcast, but Jaskier is luminous on the threshold, quietly and shyly self-effacing in his demeanour if not for the smudges of red lining the Cupid's bow and the corners of his mouth. A faint streak has migrated outside of the lines, and it feathers out towards his cheek, drawing the eye away, towards it.

Geralt wants to lick it, swallow beeswax and berries and spit.

Perhaps it happened a long time ago. Perhaps it was before, when he first saw the crimson shining on his lips in candlelight, an autumn evening in a cosy room at a nice inn, no one else around, no interruptions and no excuses.

Or maybe this is the exact moment when Jaskier throws the door wide open and, inadvertently, invites Geralt to walk through it.

An hour or two, that is all Geralt wants to afford him of sleep before they need to ride off, but allows him four hours instead, so that it's mid-morning by the time they head off.

Charm at the forefront, Jaskier stops their innkeeper on their way out to ask for a cup of fresh milk, smiles his way into cured pork and some warm bread as well, and even a hand on his elbow and the innkeeper whispering something in Jaskier's ear which makes him flush earnestly and linger until Geralt draws him away with a stony look.

They ride until the sun drops over the horizon, and another hour besides, and then Geralt builds them a fire by a stream and they eat what's left of Jaskier's presents and some leftover roasted rabbit from the day before. They boil some water and they use some of Geralt's herbs, freshly collected, to make some sweet-tasting tea. Geralt craves wine to go with their meagre feast, but Jaskier seems sleepy still from the night before, and Geralt knows that if he partakes more it'll take half the morning once again to get him to rise.

The rain doesn't return in the night, and they sleep by the fire, which Geralt banks while Jaskier snores softly next to him.

The moon is low overhead, but it's an overcast night. With something like eagerness, Geralt drops down in his own bedroll, but Jaskier draws him near sleepily, mumbling, "Cold," almost innocently, and maybe it is innocent. Thus Geralt goes.

His breath is choppy where he's got his face buried in Jaskier's neck. He doesn't know what this is, but, regardless, he allows Jaskier to bury himself along his front and pull on his arm so that it's cradled in the dip of Jaskier's waist, all the while falling back asleep with a small snuffling noise, and Geralt doesn't sleep the entirety of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, boy. Please tell me what you think.
> 
> Rating may change. I will update tags accordingly.
> 
> OK then.
> 
> Tumblr: [rhubarbdreams](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)


	2. 02.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been going through a weird slump this weekend, probably mostly due to lack of sleep, but playing The Amazing Devil in the background def helps the writing process. *grin*

Witchers don't require much sleep, but Geralt feels the complete lack thereof in the tightness of his skin and an unwelcome itch sizzling in his veins. Not even bathing in a nearby creek or drinking his fill of what leftover wine Roach carries can dispel the feeling of being wrongfooted, caught off guard by his own mind.

Riding dawn to dusk, sometimes allowing Roach to walk beside them to spare her as much as possible whenever they have to travel long distances between towns, they get sick of each other's company. They must, surely.

Yet Jaskier looks at him often, smilingly, friendship and good mood in every gesture, every word. Geralt frowns, and walks on, and minds his thoughts even inside his own head. Not allowing Jaskier to ride on Roach means Geralt often has his gaze full of the back of him, a song seldom not accompanying them to remind him—not that he's likely to forget—who his companion is. They would make better time if Jaskier had a horse of his own, but he refuses to spend good coin on one and Roach is obviously off limits.

Markedly made up by bends and angles, strong shoulders and thick biceps beneath gaudy clothes, Jaskier's back is distracting. It weighs on his mind, these details, and not even the monotone view, usually enough to numb the senses, can blow these thoughts away.

They walk at dusk, right as the sun is turning from orange to pink and grey, into a town terrorised by a born werewolf intent on satisfying its bloodlust, and, about six crowded hours later, walk out, twilight at their heels, and Geralt drenched in crimson, while Jaskier strums happily on his lute by his side. The townsfolk are generous to a fault where gold is concerned yet more than glad to see the back of them.

Despite the skin-crawling feel of werewolf blood, Geralt takes Roach's reins to guide them swiftly away. They spend the morning searching for another body of water, but only manage to find another town late into the afternoon. The horrid events their neighbours often fall victim to must have dulled their sense of surprise, for no one comments on the state of Geralt's attire other than to offhandedly recommend a good tailor come morning.

Geralt's purse is full of coin, more than he's had in his possession in a long time, and Jaskier has songs enough to enchant every tavern within walking distance, therefore it makes sense to take up a decent room above the biggest and nicest public drinking house they encounter.

As Jaskier expresses his intentions, climbing as they are to their room, to delight whatever audience he can get for one of his most heroic ballads yet, Geralt's mind lingers on a suspicion he's had for years now. Nothing tangible enough to name out loud, but _enough_ that Jaskier's tiny dagger at his ankle over which he has tossed his road boots starts making sense.

It must be his tone of voice, which Jaskier has learnt over the years to decipher in ways Geralt cannot think about lest he lose the last of his sanity. Regardless, he starts, "I don't like—" but doesn't get far.

"—getting involved, yes." His reply sounds rehearsed, even though nothing about their acquaintance has ever hinted at this conversation being forthcoming, not now of all moments in time.

"Don't involve me in this."

Stopping in his tracks so that Geralt has to stop as well in order to face him from two steps up, Jaskier says simply, "I'll do my utmost."

And that's that, it seems. Jaskier walks past him up the stairs. Breathing in and out slowly, Geralt turns out and follows him to their room.

*

They order a bath. It will cost them, as will more wood for the fire, but nights are lately becoming more than a little chilly and Jaskier is delicately human at times.

They take turns, Jaskier outvoting him for first choice by virtue of his not still being covered head to toe in werewolf gore. "You'll hardly catch anything from bathing in my soup, while I might as well transform into a creature of the full moon if I were to follow your turn." Geralt refrains from pointing out the unlikeliness of such, allows Jaskier his first choice in silence.

Passing the time by stoking the fire, Geralt's eyes find Jaskier's form all on their own. He sits himself in a nearby chair, partially facing him, and tries to will his eyes not to linger.

"A new ballad is all you wish to perform tonight?" he asks, almost casually.

And Jaskier, similarly casual, replies, "What else?" dragging the bar of soap across his chest.

Not having any other reply at his disposal, Geralt says, "Hmm," and tries to focus on his face.

Leaning back, he drags his eyes up and down in a gesture of extreme indolence not even Geralt could fault him, what with the cosiness of the fire and the heat of the water. "I expect applause. No words necessary," he adds.

"I expect you to live through the night," he comments back. The water shifts.

Calculated wordlessness follows, then, with eyes enlarged to an almost comical size, Jaskier timidly asks, "Would you miss me if I perished unceremoniously?"

Geralt ponders his answer only briefly. "I would be... disagreeable."

Jaskier sits up. "For a week?" he prods eagerly.

"A day," Geralt relents.

"A week!" he crows.

"A week," he amends before the corners of his mouth get the chance to lift of their own accord.

Later, once Geralt is submerged for his own bath, Jaskier readies himself, clothes first, a new doublet with crimson piping to match the colour he next applies to his lips. Geralt doesn't watch the transformation this time, cannot witness it once more, but regards its results with unblinking eyes.

By the time Jaskier is ready, Geralt has exited the bath and has already called for it to be taken away. Jaskier shuffles his feet by the door, uncharacteristically hesitant in ways Geralt can't quite name.

Then, "Not joining me?"

Geralt knows, he _knows_ , Jaskier means downstairs as well, right now, but it sounds as if he's asking him to indulge in his company. Geralt had no intention of doing so.

"Our hosts left us ale. I have no wish for anything more."

Jaskier hums, looking vaguely amused, though the side of his lips dip down, dragging the red with them, and says, "Then don't wait up for me."

Geralt doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Jaskier is, indeed, a spy in this, but it's super low-key. I have no knowledge of any other media but the TV series, so pardon my using this plot-point without the context it surely has in the books. Honestly, it's more background than anything.
> 
> As usual, comments/kudos give me life. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: [rhubarbdreams](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)


End file.
